Chapter Text
"I didn't really know him." This is all Siegbert had to say when Forrest asked how he felt about their grandfather's death. He spends all of his time trapped in the library or trying to study his father. Idolise him, even, carving the most ornate and detailed statue of his father and King in his growing mind. Siegbert has learned to suppress his emotions, mimic his father, but like any other human, he must carry some sort of grief with him. "So I don't really feel anything, I guess."
"Not even a little bit?"
"Not even a little bit." Siegbert comes off as cold when he lies. Forrest figures he likely shouldn't press his elder cousin for answers he doesn't want to give. Siegbert flips the page, uninterested in conversation, and Forrest notes that he really is just like his father. "I have to study. I have a test for my political studies on Tuesday and I aim to excel. I have not the time to answer questions." A wall. A big, repressed stone wall. Forrest leaves him alone.
He passes by Flora and Jakob in the hallway, Flora carrying a laundry basket and Jakob several books. The castle staff remain in their places, turning like cogs to keep daily life in the castle moving as normal. King Garon, his strange and distant grandfather, died yesterday. His uncle was coronated that very morning. The mandatory week of mourning began like any other first morning of the week—the people of Windmire woke up to the bleak grey skies, death heavy in the air. Market stalls and shops are closed, yes. But laundry doesn't wait for grief. Neither do dishes.
Forrest doesn't know what it is his duties won't wait for; he hardly knew his grandfather. He was afraid at the funeral, like any other teenager looking a corpse in the eye before was ceremoniously buried in the ground and out of the way forever. It marked the first time he had ever seen his father or his uncle cry. It marked the quietest he had ever seen his aunt Elise keep herself. Aunt Camilla spent her time trying to keep everyone together to avoid her own feelings. His aunt Corrin didn't even attend.
Siegbert and Soleil had very different demeanours during the funeral, a testament to just how different they are even though they're made of the same flesh and blood. Siegbert, ever mimicking his father, was as quiet as he was in the library. He remained by his father's side, mirrored eyes staring hardened at the late king's open casket. Generations of stonefaced grief had swallowed Siegbert, a curse on many of the firstborn men of the Nohrian royal family.
Soleil, in the meantime, was inconsolable. How she clung to Laslow the whole time, his shushes and her sobs scattered throughout the speeches, the eulogies, the droning on about their father's controversial yet uncomdemned rule. Of course, even in death, they can't criticize the king. Disproprotionate taxing is how he looked after his people, after all.
Forrest doesn't realize how far he's walked until he passes by the training grounds, the bright, overcast skies above threatening to disorient him. He can hear the sound of someone swinging their weapon fiercely, the impact of which the weapon is hitting its target almost like a boom of thunder. Whoever is out training has the intensity of a storm—common in this family, he thinks. Forrest wanders out and spies Soleil, all on her lonesome, assaulting a training dummy with the ferocity of a Wolfskin pup protecting its dying parent.
She grips her sword just like Xander—typical for her. She isn't quite as agile or fluid as Laslow, chosing instead to take on more defensive and hard-hitting stances. Here, she doesn't even seem to be thinking. Her sword hits the dummy hard at awkward angles, and her sword recoils hard with every blow. Forrest likens her to a wild beast, the way she cries and pants after every move. After one final, rather pathetic strike, she drops to her knees in front of the dummy. Forrest listens quietly—she's crying.
"Soleil?" he calls, and he hurries to her side. He's careful to sit on the side of her that's closer to the hilt of her sword; blades always made him nervous. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"This–" Soleil cuts herself off with a sniffle. She wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her shirt; they could never get her into a dress, and Forrest remembers their grandfather hated that she wore suits to every occasion. "All of this! Why are we mourning our grandfather when he treated our parents so badly?"
Forrest's heart sinks. His father avoided any and all talk of his relationship with the late king Garon. Forrest asked once what it was like growing up; his father turned it into a history lesson on a plant-manipulating spell he learned when he was ten. He knows well that King Garon and Prince Leo did not get along behind closed doors. He's seen the days his father hid in his study until suppertime after a heated scolding Forrest would catch the tail ends of. He never saw it with anyone else. Heard, certainly. But never seen with his own eyes.
"I don't… know." Forrest doesn't know what to say—Soleil has always been the pillar between herself and their friends. She was always the first person to offer a shoulder to cry on, the first to extend a hand when someone needed help. Now, when the tables have turned, he has absolutely no idea how to help. He doesn't even know how he feels. "Death is really hard no matter what." Is that really the right thing to say?
"Well I'm happy he's dead," Soleil answers, and her eyes bore into the stones of the floor. She reaches for the hilt of her sword again, and uses the weapon to help herself to her feet again. "Maybe Father can be happy for once now. Now can you move? I'm not done and I don't want to cut your head off by accident." He's never seen Soleil so angry. Prying more might set her off, especially with the question of If you hated him so much, why did you cry at the funeral? hanging off his tongue, and so he leaves her be. The walk to his quarters is lonelier than the walk to the training grounds. Castle Krakenburg is hardly a bustling place as is; the silence is eerie, leaving Forrest anxious as he retreats to his room for the night.